


Guilty Payment

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Haircuts, M/M, Madeleine Era, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:49:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is nothing improper about assisting Javert in cutting his hair - at least that is what Madeleine wants to believe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Guilty Payment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vejiicakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vejiicakes/gifts).



> A treat for vejiicakes' prompt "Different sort of hairporn: Javert has to have his old-fashioned long hair cut (going undercover, new uniform regulations, idk whatever justification you can devise). Valjean may have to do it. It’s kind of traumatizing for one or both of them. But also kind of hot."

“Is there anything else, Javert?”

He watched as Javert hesitated a moment too long before he straightened. “No, Monsieur. That is – I might not be able to give you a report tomorrow. If there is anything of importance, I have instructed Arnaud to–”

Madeleine frowned. “Certainly you do not intend to work all through the night and the entire next day as well? I thought that this mission you proposed would be a matter of hours?”

Javert's jaw tightened, although he kept his gaze respectfully lowered. Already Madeleine regretted the impulse that had made him raise the question – a day without the inspector's presence in his office to remind him of secrets all too easily revealed with one false step should have been a welcome relief.

“Forgive me, Monsieur le Maire, but we do not know just how many men are involved in this endeavor. We have observed this band too long to let this opportunity pass. With this letter, and with their secret codeword, I have a chance at last to apprehend the man behind all of this. I do not need to remind you, Monsieur, that Paris itself has for long years tried in vain to find the source of this counterfeit money.”

“Of course, Javert. I have all trust in you. I am certain you will do Montreuil proud. Maybe Paris shall even promote you – I have often feared that a town like ours cannot offer you enough of a chance to distinguish yourself.”

The words were as bland as the sentiment behind them; Madeleine kept his eyes on his desk. It was true that he would appreciate it were some reason – even a promotion – to take this specter of his past away from what peace he might find in this town; but although neither of them had ever acknowledged the quiet animosity between them, he knew that Javert was as aware as he was of the tension that made their words clipped and their meetings brief, when their positions forced interaction upon them.

Javert bowed, and then he hesitated again, his gaze drawn towards a corner of Madeleine's office for a heartbeat. Javert looked uncomfortable; his lips parted as if he were about to speak, then were tightly pressed together once more. Another heartbeat passed, and then he straightened and began to turn, and Madeleine was not quite certain what made him speak – only that he had never seen Javert behave in such a fashion before.

“Is there anything else you require assistance with, Inspector?”

He regretted those words as soon as they were uttered. They were a polite lie, at most, of course – and why would the mayor not be polite when talking to the town’s inspector – and yet, something in his words must have hit Javert, for he froze, and swallowed, and then turned back, his eyes once more searching out a corner of the room they had never lingered on before, and when he spoke, there was an uncertainty in his voice Madeleine had not encountered before.

“If – a favor, Monsieur. If you please.” Javert licked his lip nervously, still unable to meet his eyes, and when Madeleine waited with horrified expectation – for what favor could Javert of all people ask of him? Was this a trick? Another game? – Javert slowly forced himself to face him, his expression as horrified as Madeleine's, as if he already regretted his words.

“The use of your mirror, if only for a moment, Monsieur,” Javert forced out at last, clenching his teeth. “If as we suspect these counterfeiters have my description, worn clothes alone will not suffice as a ruse. I – I would ask for the use of your mirror, so I can cut my hair.”

Now Madeleine was the one taken aback, and the surprise so great that he spoke before he could think. “Your hair, Javert? But you have never...” He stopped, catching himself; there was no reason for the mayor to show an interest in the way his inspector chose to wear his hair, of course; just as there was no reason at all to avoid his presence, and yet watch his every move from the shadows.

He gathered himself, then straightened. “Of course, Javert, if you are quite certain.”

Javert inclined his head. “Thank you, Monsieur. I would not presume, but – I will have to leave as soon as possible, we have word that a carriage is expected at noon, and you see, there is no mirror in the station house...”

He fell silent, looked towards the corner where a large mirror hung once more, and Madeleine found himself studying the long hair neatly pulled out of his face by a black ribbon.

“Let me assist,” Madeleine said, and only realized what it was he had offered when Javert tensed. It was too late to take his words back; and even so, he thought, trying to school his face into the usual mask of quiet calm, to willingly place himself so close, to offer assistance in such a personal matter, would certainly be one further step to lay the inspector's suspicions to rest.

Perhaps this would not be a mistake; perhaps, after this, Javert would have his promotion and be sent to Paris and never return, never think again of the mayor who might have no past to speak of and might give too much of his money, but who also did not shy away from close interaction if it was needed.

He kept a hand lightly at the small of Javert's back as he guided him towards the mirror. Javert's body was warm, and all his instincts bade him to snatch his hand back, to feign important business, to have his secretary deal with whatever report Javert would feel duty-bound to give tomorrow – it was not yet too late; perhaps, if this endeavor was a success, together with a letter of recommendation from him, Javert would find himself promoted to Paris so soon that they might not ever be forced to interact again apart from an exchange of bland niceties...

And then Javert's eyes met his in the mirror, only to hastily look away, and his body tensed once more before he reached into a pocket to take out a shaving knife with obvious reluctance.

“You should not, Monsieur, that is, you have important business, and I shall not be more than a moment–”

“Nonsense, Javert,” he said, and if his voice was firm and light, as if this was no more than a moment's indulgence from a man known for his eccentricity, there was nevertheless a heaviness deep within his chest, and he clenched his fingers tightly around the knife to hide the way they trembled.

Javert took a deep breath; his shoulders hunched in on himself, he stood waiting, and the sight of Javert uncertain – almost afraid, he would have said of any other man – was so unusual that his fingers had moved to pull at the silken ribbon that held Javert's hair bound before he could even think about what he was doing.

Once released from the ribbon, Javert's hair spread out across his shoulders, and Javert seemed to tense even more. Madeleine kept his eyes on the hair. For a long moment, he hesitated – certainly it could not be difficult to grab a hank and saw through it; indeed, the more disheveled Javert looked, the better the disguise, and yet, something about the way the freed hair spilled down Javert's back seemed determinedly improper, as if the man had come into his office in shirtsleeves.

Madeleine swallowed, then forced himself to reach out before Javert might become suspicious. Javert's hair was strangely heavy as he slid his fingers into it, and much softer than he would have suspected. He had not even thought about the fact that he would have to touch Javert when he offered his assistance; now, with his hands buried in Javert's hair, he stood frozen, feeling the weight of it and the loud echo of his heartbeat in his ears.

All at once, it felt too intimate, as if he had stripped Javert of his clothes and drawn his fingers down his nude body; and that thought only brought more heat to his face. Javert did not speak, but he could hear the sound of his breathing; had it always been this loud? Madeleine's fingers trembled, but then he forced himself to straighten; if he seemed fearful now, Javert might grow suspicious after all. He drew his hands through the hair, which parted easily, and he wondered at how it seemed almost pleasant to touch Javert in such a way, when nothing of Javert should feel pleasant, or soft.

“Hold still, Javert, please,” he said, grateful that his voice was not shaking, though the words came out strangely hushed. Javert exhaled, remaining still and silent. Madeleine could feel the tension in his body as his hands brushed his shoulders, but he did not comment on it. Instead, he combed through the long hair again, seeking to straighten it, although there was a part of him that was still surprised by the experience – to be so close to Javert, to touch him as he once might have touched his sister’s hair – his hand stilled for a moment. Had it truly been so long since he touched someone in friendship, with affection?

Something within him flinched. How could he remember such a thing when it was Javert who stood before him, hunched in on himself as if Madeleine's touch was torment! No, there was nothing friendly about this unfortunate situation. Maybe it was torment indeed for Javert then – after all, he had never seen him wear his hair out of his customary queue. Again he recoiled inwardly. The thought was absurd: Javert capable of emotion; and worse, to fear for what his feelings might be!

No, Javert had made it more than obvious on numerous occasion that he had no consideration for fears, or sentimentality, Madeleine thought as his fingers parted the long strands with a gentleness he did not dare to acknowledge even to himself. This was... He swallowed, watched with horrified fascination how his breath stirred the hair. This was a ruse, he reminded himself. A ploy to keep Javert unsettled; no man with such damning secrets would willingly come so close to the hunter. It was a necessity, nothing more; he cared as little about Javert's thoughts or feelings as Javert cared for his own.

The hair was soft; this still surprised him. It was not unlike handling fabric, and though he had no true appreciation of the silks his tailor kept trying to press on him, the contrast of Javert's hair against his rough hands, growing sleeker every time his fingers moved through it, reminded him of the gleaming fabric. Strands parted, clung to his fingers, slipped away from him; he might have called it entrancing, if he had not tried so hard to keep his thoughts firmly focused on the necessity of not giving away any of the turmoil Javert's closeness brought him. A fingertip brushed Javert's nape; Javert started, and when Madeleine chanced a glance at him in the mirror, he found him flushed, quick to avert his eyes when he became aware of the mayor's attention.

Madeleine did not comment. He did not know what words were proper for such a situation, if there even were any; the entire endeavor seemed disproportionately improper to him all of a sudden, and he thought with guilt of his secretary, and of how shameful it would be to be caught like this, as if–

As if... This was the question Madeleine could not answer, a question he did not truly want to think about. There was nothing improper about assisting the inspector in cutting his hair, he reminded himself, pretended that his hands did not linger.

Yet linger they did, and when at last he raised the sharp knife, he was uncomfortably aware of the intimacy of this – the inherent threat of Javert standing still, defenseless against the blade that was so close to his throat. Not trusting – Javert could never be called trusting, certainly – but calmly expectant, resigned to allow the mayor to do what needed to be done, although Madeleine could feel the tension running through him. Without a doubt Javert must find this highly improper as well – and yet, Madeleine in this town had a reputation for eccentricity and philanthropy; most importantly, of course, it would be even more improper for Javert to blatantly deny the mayor's offer.

The blade was very sharp, and cut through the hair with more ease than he had expected. The sound was not unlike a tailor's shears ripping through sleek fabric, and Javert draw a startled breath. He did not move, or speak, but when Madeleine leaned past him to deposit the hank of hair on a nearby chest of drawers, he caught a glimpse of Javert's face in the mirror. Javert had paled; his lips were tightly pressed together, his eyes averted, choosing to look at the ground rather than watch the mayor’s reflection do his work. Almost, Madeleine reached out to touch his shoulder in reassurance, but then he remembered himself, and reached for Javert's hair instead to draw his fingers through it once more, so slowly and gently that in another situation it might have been a caress. Once it fell straight and sleek again, he raised the blade; this time, he was prepared, heard the soft, shuddered exhalation, took note of the way Javert seemed to hunch in on himself even more, as if he were fighting the urge to defend himself against what Madeleine was cutting off.

Strand by strand, he sawed through Javert's hair, watched the gleaming strands fall away until his fist was clenched around a handful of hair once more, and he had to put it away again before he could spend too much time considering the implications of what it might mean to do this to Javert, to take away this part of his identity, to cut away a part of him that he cherished, as much as a man like Javert was able to cherish anything...

By the end of it, he had to force himself to breathe slowly, to look at Javert's shortened hair that hung from his head in irregular strands, and before he could think he buried his hands in it once more, dragged his fingers through it to help it settle into a new pattern of the slightest curl, where before it had been straightened by its own weight.

He had to take a deep breath before he spoke, and pulled his hands away briskly, brushing them against his trousers with unease, unable to forget the way that even now they tingled with the memory of the silken warmth of Javert's hair.

“Well. It should be enough to fool your band of counterfeiters, Inspector,” he said to cover his discomfort.

Their eyes met at last in the mirror. It was only when Madeleine's eyes traveled downwards that Javert flushed and looked away, although for one long moment, he did not move while Madeleine's gaze lingered on the way that fabric now stretched tightly across a shape that was unmistakably the inspector's prick, goodly-sized, pressing against his trousers with an insistent fullness that came in such a pleasing contrast to Javert’s embarrassment that Madeleine wondered for a moment what might happen if he covered that shape with his palm, if he slid his hand into the inspector's trousers to draw forth the obscene evidence, to watch Javert forced to behold his bared shame in the mirror as Madeleine returned to drawing his fingers through Javert's hair, smooth his hand across that vulnerable nape.

It was an unworthy thought, he knew, and swallowed thickly, forcing himself in turn to acknowledge the way his own cock ached at the mere thought of that tantalizing, thick shape bared, one secret that hung between them revealed at last when others could not.

Instead, he exhaled, noting the way Javert tensed and bit his lip when his breath ghosted across the sensitive skin of his neck, then made himself turn aside, keeping that memory of Javert flushed and half-undone as secret, guilty payment.

“That will be all then, Javert.”

Javert took a moment to gather himself, although his voice was rough when he muttered his thanks and took his leave. Any other day, Madeleine might have damned him inwardly for his lack of gratitude; today, even the hurry Javert took to escape his presence was a victory, as he allowed himself to linger on the memory of the inspector's obvious predicament once more.

The long strands of Javert's hair still rested on the chest of drawers, and these came as a reminder of his own predicament, and his guilt. He hesitated for a long moment, then, calmly, carefully, as if there was nothing unusual at all about the action, he drew the silken ribbon from his pocket and tied it around the hair.

He did not touch himself. He lingered over his letters long into the night, and when he went home at last, it was so late that his tiredness left him no time to think of what had come to pass. But in a drawer in his desk, until the day he set out to Arras, there was a well-hidden braid of hair – a lover's memento, his secretary might have called it, if the mayor had been known for such an indulgence, which he was not, and if the secretary had been allowed to touch this private man's desk.

Were he a lesser man, Madeleine might have taken it out at times, to draw his fingers over the sleek hair, linger on the image of Javert hard from his touch. But the truth was, he tried not to think of it at all, and most days, he succeeded.


End file.
